


like it rough

by sinead



Series: spy!sync [5]
Category: NSYNC, Popslash
Genre: Alternate Universe - Spy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-11-14
Updated: 2009-11-14
Packaged: 2017-10-02 19:06:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,472
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9647
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sinead/pseuds/sinead
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>mission 'npossible: guns, explosions, disguises, sex, and if I could arrange for it, there'd be cheesy Lalo Schifrin theme music, too.</p><p>(Fifth story in a series with no consecutive time line.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	like it rough

 

"Stop here," Chris said.

JC's hands were light on the wheel as he maneuvered the heavy car to the curb. He left the engine running. The street was lined with three and four story buildings that looked like they had once been the town homes of respectable merchants, and now were subdivided into working class flats. It was midafternoon, and deserted.

"Our place is two doors down." Chris did not point. It was narrow, three stories, painted a faded pink. "We have the top floor. There's no one on the second floor. The landlady on the first floor is on the payroll."

Joey was looking grim. "Do you know her?"

"It's okay, Joey."

"Not if she--" Joey cut himself off, and then continued, "I think we should all stay together."

"No," Chris said sharply. "The place is too small. We'll be too visible with four of us there, needing food, and fuck knows what else." He jerked his head at Justin, who was struggling to stay conscious between them in the back seat. "Go to the place on Rue des Paumes we talked about, and I'll contact you."

"Everyday, Chris," Joey said sharply. "You got it? I don't hear from you on time, I'm over here in half an hour with a fucking Humvee and a howitzer, and screw the political consequences."

Chris made a gesture with his hand that combined acquiescence and impatience, and slid his shoulder under Justin's arm. "Time to go, kiddo." His voice was gently cheerful. "Just a little walk and then you can go to sleep." Chris pulled a baseball cap over Justin's curls and tugged the bill down to hide his face. They had stopped for a quick clean up, once JC had gotten them past the checkpoints and over the border, but there was nothing to do about how one of Justin's eyes was swollen shut, or the livid bruises on his jaw. Justin murmured and leaned against him. Chris looked up at Joey and nodded. "Door."

Joey opened the door and swung out. Chris slid over the seat, his face tense, carefully pushing Justin before him. JC watched in the rear view mirror as Joey leaned back in to help, dragging Justin from the car. Justin made an abrupt little sound of pain, and just as abruptly suppressed it. He watched through the windshield as they stumbled along the sidewalk together, matching their strides to Justin's so that they looked like two drunken pals supporting their even more drunken comrade. JC cracked the windows on either side of the car and slipped the safety off of the gun on the seat beside him. They reached the safe house and rang the bell. For a breathless minute, the door didn't open; Joey thumped the wood and called out a slurred "_est là?_" The door opened. JC put the car in gear and hit the button to send the passenger side window sliding further down, and lifted the gun, carefully keeping it below the level of the dash. He strained his eyes, trying to see further inside the dark opening of the door, but the afternoon sun was too bright. He assessed his sight line without a hard target. Then Chris and Justin disappeared inside, and Joey turned and was weaving back towards the car. He had a vague smile on his face. JC began to ease away from the curb.

Joey opened the door and flopped into the front seat. "Go, C," he said in a low voice, and JC pulled out and they left the deserted street behind.

* * *

Rue des Paumes was close to the ocean, but mostly what that meant was that the flat blue air had a fishy tang. The hotel was a tall moldering slab of white stucco that catered to weekly transients. The desk clerk was wearing smudged eyeliner, and the slowly rotating ceiling fans in the lobby stirred his thinning hair. He looked up from his garish illustrated paper and pushed the ledger across for Joey to sign. "_Quel poilu_," he sighed as he eyed Joey, breathing out the scent of absinthe and ennui. "_La ferme_," JC suggested politely, while Joey scrawled in the ledger and pushed it back, along with a wad of cash. The clerk sniffed and held out a key in a languid hand. JC tried to read the paper upside down--_beautiful boys!_, he thought he saw. _Imaginez les danses du Maroc._

The elevator creaked with age, but the room was clean enough and had its own bath. Joey disappeared into the bathroom; the water began to run. JC cracked open the tall shutters to let in a slanted bar of late afternoon light. He peeled off his clothes, the soft shirt and carefully tailored pants he had worn to pique Melcher's interest while on the job. He felt himself over, assessed his physical condition as he'd been trained to do years ago. Always make sure you're still whole after an op, he heard Baddou's voice say, because adrenaline, _c'est une putain qui te couille_. There was a patch of skin on the back of his hip that felt bruised and tender; he opened the shutters further to let in more light, and twisted to look at himself in the narrow mirror that hung on the wall. The spot was purplish, yellow. He thought back through the day's events, and realized he must have gotten it last night? The night before? He had a jumbled memory of the smell of stale cigarettes, the sheets twisted into ropes, Melcher's hoarse voice. A bite, a blow, the hard edge of the table.

He looked up at his reflected face, indistinct in the wavering motes of the setting sun. It looked soft and startled, the blond streaks that had been put into his hair before the op transforming it into a nimbus around his head. A dark line of shadow fell across his neck, separating his head from his body, and he thought dispassionately that he looked like a victim of the guillotine.

* * *

Joey sat on the bed, his back against the flat wooden headboard, his legs splayed out before him. His mouth was sweet-sharp with the taste of cognac. JC swung a knee over Joey's thighs to straddle him, and felt Joey's cock, heavy and wet against his thigh. He felt the shot of cognac he had drunk stinging under his own skin in tiny lightning pulses. Everything, the tightness of Joey's fist in his hair as they kissed, Joey's fingers tracing his ass, the stretch of his own thigh muscles as he pressed forward to push against Joey's stomach, twisted his desire higher and higher, until he was so hard it was almost frightening. He looked down, and put his hand on Joey, carefully pulling his cock upright, stroking him in the tight circle of lubed palm and fingers. Joey looked down and moaned and jerked and moved his hand to JC's hip, pulling him closer. He touched the bruise, Melcher's bruise. JC made a sound.

It must have been different from all the other sounds he was making, because Joey's eyes flew up and he said, "what?"

"Nothing," JC muttered, desperately kissing him, putting his tongue in Joey's mouth. But Joey leaned forward, carefully holding him at the waist and trying to see. JC grabbed his hand and pushed it down, back to his ass. "it was. just. he liked it rough." Joey stilled for a fraction of a second.

"Fuck me," JC breathed across Joey's mouth, and he could feel the shudder go through Joey's body at his words, his legs trembling beneath them on the bed, "fuck me." When Joey lifted his hands above his head to reach behind himself and carefully grip the top of the headboard, JC sucked in a breath and braced his own hands against the width of Joey's biceps. Joey's tattoos stood out in stark relief as the skin paled under his flexing fingers, flexing as he pushed down onto Joey, feeling the hot stretch. "Big," he whispered, and "there. _yes_. there." He came quickly, Joey groaning as he bent his head to watch the convulsion and splatter across their bellies.

"Don't come," JC gasped. Joey's groans went up in pitch, and he slumped a bit, tilting his hips higher, so that JC could plunge headlong onto his cock, twisting and breathless. JC struggled to keep his eyes open, wanted to watch Joey's face, see how he squinted and howled with mouth open in a rictus of pleasure, but in the end, he couldn't. When he came a second time, it was all velvety blackness behind his eyelids, and the faraway sound of Joey's cries, letting go, letting go, letting it all go.

Fucking after an op was always the best, JC thought, right before he passed out.

 

**Author's Note:**

> (the translations, if you like that sort of thing)  
> quel poilu: what a stud  
> la ferme: shut up  
> c'est une putain qui te couille: it's a whore that fucks you over


End file.
